It sounds strange to say that I was suspicious of a mangy, old cur dog; but it’s true. There was something so human in his glance that I followed him into the doorway to see what he was up to.

In the entrance behind the door, with his head on the lower step, a man was sprawled. A second look convinced me that he was a Saturday night drunk who had got that far and no farther. He was lying on his back, open-mouthed, and breathing heavily. The old dog stood beside him watching me.

I could see he was a workingman and ordinarily wouldn’t have given him a look, but I was now broke, hungry, wolfish. The dog growled a feeble protest as I began exploring his master’s clothes. He had money in every pocket. I left some silver in his vest for him to get a drink with when he woke up. The devoted old mongrel stood in the door as if to bar me from going out, and eyed me reproachfully when I gently pushed him aside.

Out in the street I cleansed my conscience by repeating the Sanctimonious Kid’s favorite parody: “Oh, room rent, what crimes are committed in thy name!”